


The Lunatic and the Beacon Hills Bandits

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Sports, Curses, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Magic, Mutual Pining, Pining, Quidditch, Sports, Squibs, Team Bonding, Team as Family, Training, Training Camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 03:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: Bobbythe LunaticFinstock. Coach of the Beacon Hills Bandits. He had been coaching for the pros for the past five years, but it only took him three months to get theLunaticnickname. Screaming at the refs, screaming at the weather, screaming at the players— whenever it was a Bandits game, at least a quarter of the footage was of Finstock gesturing and shouting from the sidelines.The moderator cleared their throat, and the bar hushed into reverent silence.“The Quidditch draft has begun,”the stuffy English-accented voice filled the bar,“and it begins with Robert Finstock, of the American Beacon Hills Bandits.”





	The Lunatic and the Beacon Hills Bandits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubyredhoodling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyredhoodling/gifts).



The bar was more crowded than usual. 

All the televisions were on, blaring loud at the live coverage of the big draft day. Kira should have been packing up her apartment and she _certainly_ shouldn’t have been sliding onto a stool in the corner of the bar. She had on her letterman jacket and lucky sneakers. The bartender caught her eye and slid a Shirley Temple down the table. 

“Thought you’d be at the team house.” Colin, one of the bartenders who always had a friendly, easy-going smile that helped Kira relax after a game, leaned against the bar. “I expected to see you and the team after the draft.” 

“Well, you probably will,” Kira wrung her hands, eyes flickering to the screen to the live feed of the podium being set up, of an auditorium of Quidditch teams, coaches, and managers all eagerly _waiting_ to hear about how the rankings would shift that year. “I needed to catch the first pick. After that I’ll head over to the house, and in a few hours you’ll be seeing me again.” 

Colin leaned his head back, scratching at his beard as he waggled his eyebrows. 

“Right, I get it. This will be the first time an American Coach has gotten the first pick in…”

“Eight-four years,” Kira finished. 

“Right.” Colin watched Kira stir her cherries around the glass. “And it’s going to the _Lunatic.”_ He shook his head. “God, the Brits must be going out of their fucking minds.” 

Kira grinned. 

Bobby _the Lunatic_ Finstock. Coach of the Beacon Hills Bandits. He had been coaching for the pros for the past five years, but it only took him three months to get the _Lunatic_ nickname. Screaming at the refs, screaming at the weather, screaming at the players— whenever it was a Bandits game, at least a quarter of the footage was of Finstock gesturing and shouting from the sidelines. 

The moderator cleared their throat, and the bar hushed into reverent silence. 

_“The Quidditch draft has begun,”_ the stuffy English-accented voice filled the bar, _“and it begins with Robert Finstock, of the American Beacon Hills Bandits.”_

Kira gripped her glass tight and tried not to let her mood darken as the camera pans to Finstock jogging down the aisle. 

She would most likely not play Quidditch for the rest of her life. Her graduation, while glorious and exciting, had also been the end of, what her mother referred as, _playful pastime._ The Yukimuras were well established in magic security and protection. Kira was allowed one year of sabbatical, which included any hopes of being drafted on a professional team. After that, she was officially off the market. 

The commentators went wild as Finstock made his way to the main stage. Even though he had the first pick, the Board Members had seated him all the way in the back. The American teams were always seated in the back. 

_“Robert Finstock from California is making his way to the main stage now. You’ll remember Finstock as the greener coaches in America, who has developed quite the reputation.”_

They showed a replay Kira had seen a thousand times, during his first year of Coaching when the Bandits had made it to qualifying American Cup match. Finstock might have been muted, but it was plain as day to read the words _Fuck Tradition_ right off his lips as he made a rude gesture at the opposing coach. 

_“With the first pick, Finstock has an incredible advantage to turn the tides of the Americans. They’ve been unlucky the last few decades, barely managing to quality for the playoffs at the World Cup, and never managing to make it to the quarter-finals. The Bandits in particular lost Victoria Argent last year when she retired.”_ The commentator pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. _“The Americans’ awful luck could really turn here, ladies and gentleman.”_

A few of the bar patrons rolled their eyes, grumbling in quiet whispers. 

Bobby _the Lunatic_ Finstock cleared his throat. He tapped the microphone and grinned when the feedback made the entire audience wince. 

Kira was at the bar because she was supporting her country. The first pick that went to an American coach for the first time in eighty-four years… it was a believable reason. 

Deep down, a foolish part of her still held out hope. Even though it was rare to be drafted directly out of college, even rarer when her school wasn’t particularly known for its Quidditch team… she hoped maybe, there was some _chance_ that…

No, it was stupid. 

She leaned her elbows on the bar and took a deep breath. _Way to go, Lunatic,_ she thought with a grin, _show the old farts how it’s done._

_“My first pick is a Beater from the United States,”_ Finstock glanced down at this notebook before he looked up again. He blew out a long breath, his smile brightening. _“From New York, the Beacon Hills Bandits draft Miss Kira Yukimura.”_

Someone dropped a glass. 

Kira didn’t have time to wonder if she heard correctly, if she was going to suddenly wake up in her bed and be horrendously disappointed. She had no time because Colin had leapt up onto the bar and shrieked her name, pulling her up with for a huge hug and a, “One round from the house, for Kira!” 

Kira’s sneakers barely touched the bar, she practically (and literally) levitated with excitement as the commentators on the television scrambled to pull up whatever information they could find on the unknown Beater from New York.

Her phone was buzzing in her pocket, at least eight hands were outstretched towards her offering drinks and congradulations. She grinned so hard that her face _ached._

_God, mom’s going to be so pissed._

::::

Stepping out of a Floo Network fire always left Kira feeling a little disoriented, especially if it was her first time traveling to a location. She bowed her head just in case it was a low arch. Her first two footsteps were heavy, and they quickly lightened as she got a good look at the… Beacon Hills Bandits receiving room.

Her footsteps were muffled on an oriental rug that draped over a stone floor. Large windows let in setting sunlight and Kira’s eyes struggled to adjust since she’d just stepped out of the east-coast nighttime. The silhouettes against the window were stark and bold. She rubbed her eyes to quickly clear them of any blurry lingerings. 

Coach Bobby Finstock, Co-Manager Peter Hale, and co-Manager Lydia Martin stood before her. 

The team were to the side, chatting excitedly and hugging. The only other new member was off to the side, a tall boy who looked nervous and excited. Kira was certain she had the same expression on her face. 

“Kira Yukimura,” Bobby _the Lunatic_ Finstock stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “Welcome to the Beacon Hills Bandits. Thanks for coming aboard.” 

Kira shook his hand with a grin that was definitely not reserved and sophisticated the way a Yukimura should be. 

“Thank you for having me.” 

Peter snorted and Lydia elbowed his ribs. Peter rolled his eyes. 

“What? I think it’s sweet. You’re going to lose those rose-colored glasses, Miss Yukimura. Just give it a few minutes.” He laughed before he gently unfurled his measuring tape. “I’m going to take your measurements for your uniform, okay?” 

Kira nodded. Lydia had a quill and notepad as she approached.

“Do you have any food allergies?” Kira shook her head. “Past injuries or intensive surgery or stay at an infirmary?” Again, she shook her head. “Wonderful. Here is your preliminary contract.” Lydia handed Kira a contract and the first thing she saw was the pay. Her heartbeat stuttered in her chest and she caught Lydia’s smirk. “This is for a two-year commitment to the Bandits, and if we choose to renew, you will receive a significant raise of at least thirty-five percent, but it’s usually more. Of course, we have the right to immediately terminate your contract for unlawful behavior, cheating, or anything that would damage the integrity of the team.” 

Kira just kept nodding, no doubt looking foolish as a few locks of hair fell from from her ponytail to bounce in front of her face. 

“Of course. Yes that’s,” she couldn’t help it, she giggled, “that’s totally acceptable.” 

She felt bubbly, like she was dreaming, and Peter, who’d been kneeling at her feet, cleared his throat. 

“Is this… a common occurrence?” 

Peter looked up at her with raised eyebrows. Kira blinked and realized she was floating again, just an inch or two off the ground. 

“Oh, um, sorry.” Peter grabbed her ankles and pulled her down to the floor. “It just happens sometimes. When I’m, uh, happy and, um, excited.” Peter snorted with a shake of his head, and Kira met Finstock’s amused gaze. “It won’t interfere with training.” 

“Don’t worry about that,” Finstock crossed his arms with a crooked smile. “I’ll keep your feet planted firmly on the ground, Yukimura.” 

Peter quickly finished her measurements. He squeezed her arm. 

“Leave your bags here. Go get to know the team. We’ll make sure everything gets to your room.” 

“We start bright and early tomorrow,” Finstock rasped. 

She left, still repeating of _course_ and _thank you,_ until the other new pick slung his arm around her shoulder.

“All right, your gratitude has been noted, notarized, received, processed, and accepted.” He tugged her close with a smile. “New fish gotta stick together.” The young man smiled and held out his free hand. “Stiles Stilinski.” 

She shook his hand. 

“Kira Yukimura.” 

Stiles snorted. 

“Yeah, no kidding. Sports networks were rushing to put together a biopiece on you. _The first pick heard ‘round the world.”_ Stiles winced. “Like, no pressure or anything. I wasn’t doing that to be a jerk.” 

The rest of the team was waiting outside of the glass doors. Stiles opened them and a rush of balmy air blew Kira’s hair back. Stiles stiffened by her side and she was glad she wasn’t the only one. The Beacon Hills Bandits were talking, catching up, some with playful shoves and the other with more formal handshakes. The moments the doors opened, they all turned. 

The Chasers were, predictably, the loudest of the bunch. Erica Reyes, whose grin was all teeth and squeezed the tightest, hugged Kira first, lifting her up before passing her off to the more reserved but still luminous Scott McCall, Danny Mahealani, and Vernon Boyd. Next came the Keepers, a silent Derek Hale and a cocky Jackson Whittermore. Isaac, the Seeker, shook Kira’s hand quickly before paying more attention to Stiles with a soft, “Seeker-to-Seeker, get ready for some tough training, man.” 

Finally, Kira made it to Chris Argent and Jordan Parrish. 

Jordan was the younger of the two, offering a high-five while Chris was reserved, his tattoo-covered arms enormous as he shook her hand. 

“Welcome to the team.” Chris’s grip was firm. “Pre-season training isn’t easy. Are you ready for some of the hardest months of your life?” 

“Yes,” Kira nodded with a grin. “Yes, absolutely.” 

Jordan snorted.

“Well, you’re not, but no one is. The key is a good attitude.” 

Chris shook his head. 

“No, it’s determination.” 

Kira grinned, crossing her arms as her toes left the ground for a few moments. 

“Good thing I got both.” 

Jordan slapped her on the back with a laugh. 

::::

Chris and Jordan weren’t kidding. 

“All right,” Finstock’s voice was unfairly crisp and clear at five-thirty in the morning. The Beacon Hills Bandits breathed in shivering bursts. Kira stood dressed in the thermal underwear and long-sleeved top provided by the team with her normal gym clothes atop. “For the baseline warm-up, I want a fifty yard sprint,” he gestured to the flat ground by them, “where you’ll immediately climb over the twenty-foot obstacle wall, and after that, come back doing high-stepped sprint on the tire path.” He had a silver whistle around his neck. “New fish,” Kira and Stiles straightened up, “one of you is first out on the whistle.” 

For all his sarcasm, Kira saw Stiles’s pale throat swallow, his hands shaking. 

“I’ll do it.” 

Kira stepped out from the group, standing at the start of the fifty yard dash. Finstock put the whistle between his lips while Peter and Lydia stood with their arms crossed, dressed in fluffy sweaters. Kira didn’t look at her team. She only had eyes for the fifty-yard stretch that ended the twenty-foot barrier. 

With her breath setting the steady cadence, Kira waited. 

The whistle blew. 

She took off. 

Her mother had always wanted Kira to be good at Arithmancy and Defense Against the Dark Arts. It would have been good for the Yukimura brand, the legacy that her ancestors had created. _Don’t you feel it,_ her mother pleaded when she showed Kira graph after graph, sigil after sigil as a child. _That spark?_

Kira was light, a knife through water, pushing off the ground and leaping onto the wall. 

The truth was that Kira didn’t feel that spark until the first moment she stepped onto a Quidditch pitch. Her parents built their legacy on magic security, at breaking down hexes and deep curses until it blew away into dust, and using that dust to build some of the strongest wards in history. Kira knew that the _smart_ thing to do was to follow in her parents footsteps. 

Her hands gripped the small divots on the wall, but it was her legs that pushed up closer to the top. 

Flight, speed, and physical training… it made Kira levitate off the ground more consistently than any other instance. The crack of a bat against a Bludger, it made her heart sing, it felt like her chest was ripped open, and the flowers that nestled between her ribs were allowed to bloom freely.

Her hands gripped the top of the barrier. She pulled and pushed over, sailing and twisting in the air. 

American Quidditch teams weren’t taken seriously, they hadn’t made it to a World Cup semi-final, and passion for the sport had waned. Last year, the only two teams who got close to the semi-finals were the Fitchburg Finches and the Texas Rangers. Fitchburg missed it by five games, Texas by seven. 

The tires were about precision and maintaining form without getting sluggish. It was another fifty yards back of high-stepping through tires laid out on the ground before Kira made it back to the team. 

Jordan and Chris clapped first, the rest of the team joining as Finstock narrowed his eyes. Peter and Lydia stepped forward, wands out, as Finstock drew close. 

“You’re right-handed,” Finstock observed. “Your right side dominates your every move and you’re letting your legs do most of the work. So, I want twenty here,” he tapped Kira’s left calf, “twenty-five,” for her left thigh, “and forty-five” he motioned to her entire left arm and shoulder before he circled to her right side. “Forty,” for her right arm, “twenty,” for her right thigh, “and fifteen,” for her right calf. Finstock nodded. “And that should do it for now.” Finstock blew his whistle. “Stilinski, you’re up!” 

Peter and Lydia muttered something quiet. Kira immediately fell to her knees. 

“Um,” she heard Stiles hesitate. “Coach, is Kira all right—”

“Don’t worry about her,” Finstock shouted, “worry about your time. Ready on my whistle!” 

Kira picked herself up. _He wasn’t kidding,_ she turned and Chris helped her reorient herself, readjusting her center of balance with the new weight added to her body, _my feet are certainly on the ground now._

It was fascinating to watch Coach Finstock distribute the additional weight with confident precision. Stiles cursed the loudest about it, which just made the rest of the team laugh once they were all finished. 

“Daily morning drills start at five-thirty every morning. It starts with a team run through the grounds. For the first two weeks, that run will be five miles.” Finstock’s breath blew out in white clouds as he gestured to the large property behind hm. “After that, you’re splitting off into groups via your positions on the team. The captains already know the drills and the equipment. Lunch is at two, and you’re back on the fields at three thirty. Dinner is at eight, lights out at ten-thirty. Good?” 

As a team they said, “Yes, Coach,” before they took off running. 

::::

No brooms or wands were allowed at practice for the first two months. 

“This is bullshit.” Stiles sat down next to Kira three weeks into their training. “Kira.” He pressed his leg against hers, his body swaying. They learned quickly that hugs and friendly contact wasn’t the same when upwards of one-hundred pounds was added to a body. “Come on, whine with me.” 

Kira snorted. 

“Nope. You’re all on your own with that.” 

Stiles groaned, kicking out his legs on the grass and falling back against the hill. Further down the yard Jordan ate with the Chasers. Lydia and Jackson enjoyed a nice meal on a blanket, and Isaac ate with Derek. Kira was close enough to hear the Chaser’s joke, but far enough that she didn’t have to laugh. 

“I don’t know how you’re still smiling.” Stiles nudged Kira until she set aside her plate and laid out on the grass. “I feel like any extra muscle movement drains me even faster.” 

“My college coach hated it.” Kira turned to meet Stiles’s questioning gaze. “My smile. He thought it meant I wasn’t working hard. _If you have the energy to smile, you’re not trying hard enough.”_ Kira shrugged. “If anything was going to prove his point, it would be these exercises, but it hasn’t gotten me yet.” 

Lunch was over and Stiles grimaced when Isaac wandered over with a loud, “Tell my father where I’m buried, just leave me here!” 

At the start of every week, Finstock would have them run the same short drill they did at the start of training, and would add more weight. Three weeks was also when Finstock lugged a chest out to the Beater’s Clearing, a clearing in the woods in a perfect circle with a hundred-foot diameter. Most of their days had involved weight training and perfecting balance. 

“All right,” Finstock wiped sweat off his forehead and sat on top of the chest. “I’m not coming to you, you all come to me.” 

Kira, Jordan, and Chris were by his side the next moment. Chris smirked at Finstock’s flushed cheeks and how splotches of red crept down his neck. 

“You doin’ okay, Coach?” 

Finstock flipped him off. 

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. This bullshit is heavy.” He had Beater clubs slung around his back, which he handed out to them. “You’re doing well, making great progress on your times and getting your bodies balanced. We’re not at brooms yet, but it’s time to release the Bludgers.” 

Kira caught the Beater club when he threw it to her. Jordan and Chris were familiar with their clubs, taking a few swings. 

“Aim is crucial, it’s not enough to just bat a Bludger away. Every time you connect,” Finstock continued, his eyes going from Chris, to Jordan, to Kira. “I want you to be _aiming_ your shot. Got it?” 

“Yes, Coach,” the three of them answered. 

Finstock grinned. 

“Great. Now, let me explain the drill.”

He called it a mixture of Double-Dutch and Playing Catch, except there were no jump ropes or catchers mitts. Finstock was going to release the Bludgers and whomever it went after first would hit it, and would aim for one of their teammates, who would _catch,_ but really just _hit_ it to the other. “With the two Bludgers going at once, it’s almost like jump ropes,” Finstock said as Chris shook his head and whispered, “it’s nothing like jump ropes.” 

Finstock opened the chest and the Bludgers were out, one zooming to Jordan while the other went to Kira. She drew her bat back and swung, sending it close to Chris. He hadn’t taken the weights off their arms, and Kira’s muscles burned as she moved at the same speed she normally did, only it was against ninety pounds. 

She breathed in strangled bursts for the first few rounds, until they eventually established a rhythm. The _cracks_ of their bats sounded like gunshots echoing through the trees. Kira saw her aim improve. 

“Very good.” Finstock whistled. “Next week you’ll be doing this blindfolded!” 

::::

Jessica Jordan stood in her father’s living room and checked her bag for the fourth time that morning. Quill, scroll, enchanted ink, booklets on each American team, their coaches, and players, and appropriate gifts for the coaches and managers. 

“You got this, jellybean.” She jumped at her father’s voice behind her. He was still in his pajamas and had started coffee. Her mom needed at least two and a half cups before she was ready for the day. He had her mother’s cup in his one hand, newspaper in the other. “Check your bag all you want, you have everything you need.” 

She opened her letter-carrier bag, biting her lip. 

“Yeah well, you say that and then I’ll need to Floo back to pick up something and—”

“And even if that happens you’ll be fine.” Her father waved his hand, his dreads falling down his shoulders. “Just say that the BBC requires your presence for just a moment and you’ll be back shortly. I do it all the time.” 

“Da-ad.” She giggled. “That’s so bad.” He gave her a firm hug and Jessica hid her face in his shoulder. “I just don’t want to embarrass you.” 

“Not possible.” He kissed her forehead. “Now go. The Americans have dull teams every year, so you’re starting off easy.” 

It was late October and they had only two weeks before Quidditch season started, and journalists were finally able to meet the teams and provide pre-season write-ups. Jessica was part of the first wave, whose observations would help commentators like her father bring an extra edge on the first day of the season. She took a deep breath and walked through the flames, crossing thousands of miles in the span of a breath. 

The BBC had scheduled the Beacon Hills Bandits to be last, wrapping up in the late evening before she’d take the Floo Network back home. 

As she left Texas, she believed that her father was right. The American teams were adequate, but nothing special. 

She stepped into the Beacon Hills Bandits Floo Foyer, an intimate room with loaded bookshelves and tasteful brick walls. The sun was just starting to set and a brutal autumn chill had Jessica clutch her coat tighter around her. 

Lydia Martin stood before her, dressed in a mustard yellow blazer and jet-black slacks. Jessica blinked, not expecting to feel so unbalanced in America. 

“Ms. Martin,” Jessica held out her hand, “I’m Jessica Jordan from the BBC.” 

Lydia’s skin was soft against hers, a gentle squeeze and release as Lydia brushed her hair back over her shoulder. 

“Pleasure’s all mine.” 

“Sorry,” Jessica’s lips quivered, her mind pushing out the question before her jaw could slam shut, “but aren’t you managining Deucalion’s team?” 

Lydia Martin was well-known as the American propaganda artist, weaving compelling stories around players that gripped the country in a religious-like fervor. She’d been Deucalion’s right-hand woman for years. 

“I’ve stepped down from his team.” Her smile widened. “I missed my country. Please, follow me. We’re wrapping up individual drills and will be starting team practice soon.” She held the door open. Jessica stepped out into the California air. Lydia checked her watch with a frown. “You’ll only have time for one group before the team practices together, which position would you like to see?” 

Jessica clutched her bag. Watching the Seekers would be advantageous, though Finstock had made a bit of a name for himself for the downright bizarre and complicated plays that he’d have his Chasers execute… but really, there was only one answer. 

Robert Finstock had the first pick of the draft, and he’d picked a random Beater who hadn’t played on a first division college Quidditch team. 

“The Beaters,” Jessica managed a professional smile despite her racing heart, “please.” 

Lydia’s lips pulled back into a wolfish grin. She led Jessica across the expansive, well-groomed yard into the forest. The moment Jessica stepped past the treeline, she heard thunder-like _cracks._ Peter Hale leaned against a tree, his hands tucked nonchalantly in his pockets. He looked like he was out on a pleasant stroll by the sea, a sweater tied around his shoulders and not a hair out of place. 

He was utterly calm despite the drills he was overseeing. 

Jessica’s blood ran cold when she saw Chris Argent, a veteran of the game who’d had a twenty-year career, Jordan Parrish who was rumored to have rejected several lucrative offerings from other teams, and Kira Yukimura, the new, mysterious Beater, all _blindfolded._

Blindfolded and _on brooms_ with their clubs, hovering at least ten yards in the air. 

Her fingers were numb around her quill as she watched them hit Bludgers at each other, like a primitive dance as they connected with the bat, a spine-tingling _ca- **crack**_ echoing through the leaves. 

_Bloody hell,_ Jessica swallowed, _he really is a Lunatic._

From somewhere behind them, a faraway whistle floated across the cold air. Peter pushed off the tree and shook open a sleeper bag, a resting place for Bludgers. 

“Kira,” Peter spoke clearly and _bloody cold as ice_ as he held the back open, “next one hit to me.” 

Kira nodded, and at the next _ca- **crack**_ she dropped, her legs hugging her broom as she swung down, her arms free and she caught the Bludger that was hit a little low to her. Jessica watched Kira’s bat strike, and the Bludger _shrieked_ toward Peter, dead-on. He caught it in the bag easily right as Lydia gently touched Jessica’s arm. 

“Come on,” she nodded to the side, “let’s go to the group pitch. The Beaters will be there shortly.” 

Jessica stumbled after Lydia, turning to take one last look as Chris hit final bludger at Peter. Still _bloody blindfolded._

“They were,” Jessica struggled to catch her breath, “the Beaters were—”

“Finstock is taking a new approach to practices.” 

Lydia smiled as they walked out onto the Quidditch pitch. The Chasers, Seekers, and Keepers were already there, chatting merrily as Robert _the Lunatic_ Finstock twirled his silver whistle around his fingers. Once he caught sight of Lydia he grinned and jogged over. 

“Hey, Lydia. And, Jessica Jordan, right?” His hands were warm when he shook hers, his callouses rough but not unpleasant. “Welcome to the madhouse.” 

The Beaters flew into the pitch, Peter Hale hitching a ride on the back of Kira’s broom. When they landed, the team was loud, Stiles shoving Peter with a _“get your own ride.”_ The noise was a full roar, laughter and overlapping exclamations, conversations, and dramatic gestures. Americans were akways _loud,_ but the Beacon Hills Bandits had to be the _loudest._

Jessica realized that Finstock had asked her a question. 

“Sorry,” she took a steadying breath, “say that again?” 

Finstock didn’t bat an eye. If he noticed her momentary flustered lapse, he didn’t comment. 

“I said, I’m glad to see you out in the field. I’ve been reading your articles for a while. I love your father, he’s a fine commentator, but I think your voice is distinct.” His teeth clipped off the words so sharply that Jessica had to take a moment to realize that she’d been complimented. “Lee Jordan is funny, sharp, but sometimes you need a balance. At least,” Finstock shrugged, “that’s how I feel.” 

“Oh.” Jessica opened her notepad again, her quill much steadier. “Thank you.” 

Peter animated dummy players and released the ball to have a test match. Lydia stood by Finstock’s side and three minutes into the game, Finstock whispered to Lydia. She immediately whipped out her wand and with a hushed _“Stupefy,”_ knocked out Erica Reyes. It was so sudden and jarring, Jessica immediately reached for her wand, her breath short in her chest to catch the Chaser, but not before Boyd scooped her up. 

Within a matter of minutes, Erica was back on her broom and flying. Finstock waited another few minutes, for the Chasers to score a few times and the Beaters to hit targets on the edges of the field with Bludgers. The next player knocked out was Chris Argent. 

A few curt whistles later, Kira flew _under_ Chris’s body, and used his momentum to secure him to her back before she flew back up. 

Jessica let her notepad hover out of her hands, her quill still scratching the opening lines across the paper. 

_The Beacon Hills Bandits are taking a note from their coach. They are shameless lunatics, and I personally look forward to how it influences their season._

::::

A light fog hovered a few inches above the grass on the final day of practice. It had started like any other day, a fifteen mile run and hours of individual drills. Kira stood on her hands, in line with Chris and Jordan, holding her position as sweat up her back and neck. She breathed through the aches in her muscles, she let her mind lighten even as her body remained weighted and heavy. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Peter had stepped into the clearing. 

“All right, that’s enough for today.” Kira made a confused noise and slowly lowered herself back down, rolling onto her knees. “The team is meeting back at the yard.” 

He jogged off into the woods. Kira wiped sweat and dirt from her face and turned to Chris and Jordan. 

“Do you think something happened?” Finstock hadn’t been present in the morning for his usual speech. Sometimes he missed mornings, sporadically enough for Kira to notice, but rare enough that she never worried. Chris and Jordan shot each other a look and Kira sighed. “Another tradition?” 

She didn’t need their nods to know. Despite the weight to her limbs, she felt energetic and eager. Their steps were in synch as they walked free of the woods and back to Finstock’s home. 

They stepped out at the same time as the Seekers, the rest of the team already there. Still, Finstock was missing. 

“Kira,” Peter motioned to the start of the fifty yard dash that led to the twenty foot wall, “you’re first.” 

She didn’t hesitate. Over the months of intense training, she forgot how nervous she’d been at first, the giddiness had melted into an assurance that she _belonged._ She wasn’t just lucky, a lightning-in-a-bottle flicker that would eventually sputter and die. She _fit_ with the team. 

As she jogged to Peter, he pulled out his wand and whispered. Her entire body lightened and, for a few harrowing moments, Kira was certain she was going to float away on the breeze. She made some sort of a noise, a strangled gasp as all the weight that had been with her constantly disappeared. 

Peter didn't allow her much time before he clapped his hands once. 

“Go!” 

She went. 

_Off like a shot,_ her dad used to say when Kira had first gotten on a broom. The fog couldn’t move fast enough to get out of her way, flying up in a delay after she’d passed. She leapt, pulled, twisted, and sailed over the otherside, and went through the tires. Her mind was clear. She thought of _nothing_ except the wind in her hair and the air in her lungs.

Peter said her new time, but she was too busy getting wrapped up in a hug from Stiles. By the time the rest of them were done, she hadn’t touched the ground for one moment. 

“Freedom!” Stiles bounced around the rest of the team, never staying in one place long enough for anyone to get a grab on him. “Sweet, merciful freedom!” 

The closer they got to the house, the more they could smell… food. Scents of all kinds made Kira’s stomach growl and when they passed over the hill that hid Finstock’s house… they saw that a large tent had been set up, with lights strung along the edges as it stretched a good twenty feet. 

Usually dinner was on the hillside, the team too weighed down to even think about tables and chairs. Now, a long table was set up and without the weights, the team eagerly fell into place. Plates were already set out with a little name plate on each, for all the veteran members, Kira noticed. Stiles and Kira were sat at opposite ends, but they were the only noticeable blank spaces. 

Kira didn’t let herself worry, staring at her name plate that matched the gold lettering on all the others. She sat next to Chris and across from Boyd. Chris cut off a piece of steak for her and Boyd insisted she try his risotto. The table quickly became a clattering of plates as everyone shared pieces of their dishes, even Jackson made sure every person tried the creamiest French onion soup Kira had ever tasted. 

She was so caught up in dinner she forgot she’d never gotten a plate for herself, until a throat cleared beside her. 

“So every year,” Finstock pulled up a chair next to her, “on the last day of practice we eat our favorite meal.” He slid a plate over to her. “Your father told me this was yours.” 

Tamagoyaki, miso soup, and grilled salmon was spread out along the plate, with chopsticks and a fork, knife, and spoon rolled up in a napkin just in case. The egg was fluffy, the miso tasted just the way her father would make it on Saturday mornings. The salmon melted in her mouth. 

“Who,” Kira had to know, even if all she wanted to do was savor every bite of her meal, “made this?” 

Finstock’s lips twisted into a crooked smile, a sheepish, softer touch of an expression. The most surprising thing about joining the Bandits was how _quiet_ Bobby Finstock could be. Everyone knew him as _the Lunatic,_ and he was a lunatic. 

He was also a soft smile at the end of a long day, a whisper into Lydia’s ear, and a startled laugh from a crass joke from Stiles. Kira was starting to see the entirety of him. She wondered, deep down in the safety of her private thoughts, if he saw more of her. 

“I did.” He either ignored or looked past Kira’s awe. “Look, I just wanted to say, you’ve been doing really well. It’s a risk, picking someone right out of college, and it’s a risk for you,” he tapped his finger on the table, “joining a team full of people you don’t know run by a guy everyone calls the _Lunatic.”_

Kira smiled, gentle, to match his. 

“Worth it.” She held up a cut piece of tamagoyaki. “Come on, you have to try it.” 

In a moment, she’d share her meal with the team, she’d move to Stiles's side of the table so he could tell her about mother’s breaded cauliflower recipe. She’d be lost in the Chasers and would end the night sharing the last bits of her salmon with Derek. But for right then, at that moment, she watched Finstock chew, his ears pink and his eyes bright. 

:::: 

Peter Hale had known Finstock all throughout school. He was the upperclassman that always got into fights, usually about his upbringing or sports, and he was the only student who hadn’t blinked at the _Hale_ name. That had been enough for Peter to start eating lunch with him, shooting off hexes in fights, and, eventually, becoming the manager of his Quidditch team. 

_Have you lost your mind,_ was what his mother had shrieked when Peter quit the Hale firm. _Finstock is a lunatic and a useless—_

He stopped listening after that. He still got the occasional postcard from Cora and Laura. Derek kept a collection of letters under his bed. It wasn’t amazing money and it took a lot of energy and time, but…

Nothing made him happier. 

It was the last night they had before the season officially started. The team had been granted three days off to spend time with their families, so Finstock’s Floo room had been noisy in the morning, before the entire property fell into silence. Every year, Bobby would wring his hands for an hour after the team left, unsure what to do without all the noise. 

“All right,” Peter slung his arm around Bobby’s shoulders, “let’s watch some tape. They didn’t start us easy, the Finches aren’t exactly a team we should sleep on.” 

He prepared some coffee and it only took a few minutes before him and Bobby were hunched over their notebooks, Bobby making notes on what plays would best penetrate the Finches defenses, while Peter would focus on the offense. 

Peter wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when Lydia threw open the curtains both Bobby and him hissed, slapping their hands over their eyes. 

“Enough.” 

“Jesus Christ, Lydia,” Bobby spat, dragging his fingers down his clammy face. “I _need_ my eyes.” 

“You also need a shower,” Lydia wrinkled her nose. “Peter warned me about your adorable miniature depression period, but it’s time to start talking about the big picture,” she pulled Finstock up by his arms. “I did you a favor of restocking your bathroom for you,” Finstock opened his mouth, his cheeks red, “you’re welcome. Be back in forty minutes.” 

Her smile and firm push left little room for argument. Peter smirked as Lydia waved the windows open to let in fresh air. 

“I have to ask,” he drawled with a syrupy smirk, “did you ever pull those kind of moves with Deucalion when you were his advisor?” 

“Contractually, I have no comment on the matter due to confidentiality.” Lydia winked. “But no. I did not. I didn’t want my hand bitten off.” 

Deucalion Blackwood. He was the Coach and co-owner of the Blackwood Wolves, a favorite English team that for the last four World Cups, had been selected to be the dominant representative team. He was an heir to a incredible fortune, and Lydia had been with him for nearly six years, building the team up and spinning legacies. There were rumors that they were engaged, and then suddenly Lydia vanished, rescinded her contract with the team, and had shown up on Finstock’s doorstep in the middle of dinner. _Mr. Finstock,_ Lydia purred while frizzy locks of hair fell from her normally immaculate bun, _I was hoping for a moment of your time._

It had been an eventful night, Peter stumbling out of Finstock’s fire the moment he rang him, and Lydia looking more put together than the both of them despite the hour, her windblown hair, and frayed jacket sleeve. 

“And you think the Lunatic is fine being pushed around?”

Peter followed Lydia into the kitchen. She hopped up on the counter, her bare feet dangling in front of the cabinets. 

“The Lunatic is a big softie and you know it.” She leaned her head back, toward the hall where they both heard the shower running. “Most Coaches aren’t married to the game. They want to win a championship, maybe a World Cup, and then retire. Do whatever it is they really want.” She drummed her painted nails along the granite countertop. “To the best of my knowledge, there is nothing else for him. He’s not married, no kids, no girlfriends, boyfriends, he’s just…” She bit her lip. “He’s actually loves the game.”

Peter heard the unspoken question. 

“He’s taken himself off the board, so to speak, for romantic relationships.” Lydia raised her eyebrows with a questioning hum. “It’s the for the first reason you’ve thought of. I’m not going to insult us both by voicing it.” 

Peter knew he had lost control from how Lydia’s eyes widened, that he’d tossed away his usual polite veneer in favor of bitterness. Finstock had only talked about it once, a month before they graduated college. Sipping beers, feet dangling off the balcony of their apartment, when Finstock had shrugged his way through what he believed to be his future. 

_Being alone ain’t so bad._ His smile was wide, luminous, even when Peter found it difficult to feel anything but anger. _Love isn’t in the cards for some people. We all know my deck has a lot of gaps._

He laughed because, to Finstock, if he laughed first than the scathing laughter that came from others was negated. He was the _Lunatic_ because his loud _everything_ would draw eyes before they’d start to whisper about him. He controlled the first movement, and to Finstock, that was all that mattered. 

“But if someone was attracted to him, would he immediately shoot them down because he’s, as you say, _off the board?”_

“I…” Peter was ashamed to admit that he hadn’t thought about it. “I’m not sure. I don’t think he’d just outright reject a potential partner, but it hasn’t exactly come up. Why?” Peter took a steadying breath, his skin suddenly tight. “Are you—”

Lydia laughed just as the shower turned off. 

“Heavens no. My sexuality, at this present moment, is aggressive indifference.” 

Peter tapped his fingers on her knee. 

“I’ll second you on that.” 

Lydia hummed with an aloof smile before she turned to watch Finstock shuffle into the kitchen. He had on his track pants and an old college t-shirt, a thin robe thrown on over his shoulders but the sash hung loose. 

“Ms. Martin,” he sidled up to the stove, smirking when both of them perked up. _I can see your tails wagging,_ he would say as he served the team dinner. “I vaguely remembered saying you wanted to go over some narrative ideas.” 

Lydia slid off the counter, twirling around Bobby until she was behind Peter, resting her chin on his shoulder. 

“You didn’t bring me on the team just to be a thorn in Peter’s side.” She winked. “I have a few ideas.” 

He matched her smile and cut off a piece of butter, letting it sizzle on the pan.

::::

“Shit,” Stiles’s leg bounced as he sat on the bench, starting up at the game. “Shit-fuck-shit-shit-fuck.” 

“Language,” Peter hissed at him. 

“Uh, Coach curses all the time.” A sharp _what the **fuck**_ drifted down the line as Finstock threw his hands up at the refs. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Case in point.” 

“Vularity makes Finstock stand out.” Peter sat next to Stiles, stretching his unfairly long legs out in front of him. “Maybe not as much in America, but once we start playing international teams it raises eyebrows. If you start doing it too, then it becomes less special. Then the _Lunatic_ stops being a, well, lunatic, and just becomes some asshole who’s letting a bunch of other assholes curse all over the field.” Peter nudged Stiles with a thin smile. “If we all acted like him, it would make him less unique.” 

Stiles snorted. 

“I don’t know if that’s possible but I see your point.” It was rotten luck that they were pitted up against the fucking _Finches_ first. The Finches were champions and the Bandits were… well, they needed to get warmed up, is all. Stiles dragged his hands down his face. “I just… I will say that I am very _agitated_ at the game.”

The Finches were _relentless,_ it felt less like a game and more of an endurance match. Erica and Boyd were keeping to together, but Scott was starting to lag. He saw Finstock watching with crossed arms. Kira and Chris were in the air, and Stiles held his breath, slowly standing to his feet despite Peter’s questioning hum. A bludger whizzed towards Boyd and Kira gave chase, only to be meet by the opposing Beater. Stiles shrieked, unable to say words, as the Beater took a swing, nearly connecting with Kira’s _skull,_ but she dropped before they could connect, coming free from her broom to free fall for thirty feet before she righted herself with a cackle. 

“What,” Stiles gestured to Peter, whose frown was deadly, “what was that?” 

A sharp whistle came from Finstock. 

“Time out!” Finstock waved his arms as the referees glanced his way from their brooms. “I’m calling my last fucking time out!” 

The referees blew their whistles with an eye roll. The team landed around Finstock, Stiles running over with his broom in hand as Finstock grimaced at the scoreboard. They were down by one hundred and seventy. It was the _Finches._ They were world _champions._

“Mahealani, you’re in for McCall. Lahey, take a break, you’ve earned it.” 

Isaac nodded, clammy and still shaking from so many fake-out drops he’d done. Stiles held out his hand and Isaac slapped it with a weak smile. Stiles pulled on his goggles with a _snap_ as Finstock stared at Chris and Kira. They’d both been in the entire game and Stiles’s palms tingled just thinking about how many Bludgers they’d sent sailing at the Finches. 

“I’ve got reserves.” Kira smiled, sunny despite their low score. “I’m good to go, Coach.” 

Finstock hit Chris’s arm. 

“Get on the bench, catch your breath, Jordan, you’re in.” He gently pulled Kira in by her arm, whispering into her ear. Her grin widened as she nodded. She bounced back, hopping from leg to the other, half keeping her muscles warm and half a show to the Finches that she was ready for more. “Chasers, we’re going full Independence Day and Health Care, okay?” Stiles snorted at Finstock’s famously ridiculously named plays, before Coach turned to him. “Stilinski,” his voice was a whisper that was somehow not drowned out by the roaring stands of Finches fans, “do whatever you can to catch the Snitch.” Before Stiles could retort with _it’s literally my only job,_ he continued. “Yukimura and Parrish are going to open the field for you.”

A whistle blew before Stiles could respond, his mouth dry and a wild smile growing across his face. 

Nothing beat the wind in his hair and the flutter in his stomach that happened when he kicked off the grass, sailing into the air as he flew high above the pitch. The Finches Seeker joined him with the typical, dismissive indifference. Seekers were often floating up in pairs before one of them made the spot, and then it became a real chase. The guy’s expression said it all, _stuck with this kid until I spot it, then the game is over._

Stiles did his best to taper down his smirk. _Good luck with that, dude._

The Quaffle was thrown and the balls came back to life. Stiles slowly drifted further away from the Seeker, his eyes on the field and then he heard the first crack. He caught sight of the glimmers the same time the other Seeker did, but _unlike_ the other Seeker, a second crack didn’t send a Bludger coming straight for him. 

Stiles didn’t have time to wonder what the commentators were doing in the booths, or what the Finches fans were screaming as more _cra- **cracks**_ from Jordan and Kira’s bats echoed across the field, passing the Bludgers to each other and launching it at the opposing Seeker. 

Stiles dropped, getting close to the his broom handle to try and minimize wind resistance as he charged. He heard the other Seeker, cursing, trying to give chase but having to dodge Bludgers every so often as Kira and Jordan continued their demented volley. Stiles quickly darted between befuddled Chasers, evaded bottles thrown by Finches fans, and turned on a dime, each cra-cracks making Peter and Finstock cheer, and all Stiles had to do was reach—

His thighs hugged the very end of the handle and his two hands darted out and he _caught it._ He gripped it tight, just to make sure, before he slowed. He held up his hand, and the referees blew their whistles. 

He held up the Snitch, grinning despite his blood rushing back to his organs from all the quick turns and sudden drops and evasions. He grinned through the Seeker’s Nausea and quickly let his feet touch the ground so he could throw himself into his team’s embrace. 

::::

_Finches - Bandits Opening Season Game Ends in a Tie!_

_In a surprising turn of a events, the Beacon Hills Bandits prove that they’re a force to be reckoned with. Despite being down, Seeker Stiles Stilinski made the game-ending Snitch catch that brought their team up to an even score against reigning American champions, the Fitchburg Finches._

_Photographs below capture the Bandits loud celebration with slightly confused Finches._

::::

Team dinners were still important even when they were on the road. 

Most Quidditch teams traveled via the Floo Network, arriving in either a magic sanctioned hotel or home for visiting teams. The Beacon Hills Bandits, to Chris’s knowledge, were the only ones who travelled by No-Maj means. A repurposed school bus painted in Bandits colors was their mode of transportation, and they often stayed at rest stops where Peter and Lydia would set up a tent with a large interior with beds and a kitchen, and they’d sleep to the sounds of the night muffled from the cloth. 

Teams who used the Floo Network were easy to visit. Visitors for the Bandits were harder to arrange. 

They were six games in, five wins and one loss, when they were staying the night somewhere off the Blue Ridge Parkway. Finstock drove the bus, and Peter and Lydia would clear the way once they decided to stop for the night. Wards and Charms would easily hide them from No-Maj eyes, and then they’d set up the tent, with a large and luxurious interior with a kitchen and beds. Though, because it was a tent, the team slept in one room, with curtains around each bed for additional privacy. 

That night, as Stiles typed away on some No-Maj device, Chris stood beside him outside of the tent. Stiles slipped the device into his pocket just as Victoria and Allison appearated.

“Dad!” Chris marveled at just how tall Allison was getting as she jumped into his embrace. “That last game was _killer,_ we all watched it at the dorm and we were screaming at that ref, he had it _out_ for you guys, you know and then I called Mom and—”

Victoria laughed, a low chuckle that Chris had missed so much. 

He held the curtain open, leading them inside where dinner was being prepared in full force. Finstock was the only one who actually _cooked,_ apparently the times Peter had tried helping had been so disastrous that he was banished to the table for the safety of everyone. Lydia was above cooking without magic, and the rest of the team was allowed to help with the prep work. It was an unspoken agreement that everyone participate unless they had a guest. 

Chris and Victoria sat at the table while onions, garlic, scallions, carrots, and apples were all chopped, diced, and minced. Slabs of chicken breast were seasoned, and a big pot of curry was bubbling away. As Chris sat, Stiles hurried to Finstock, whispering in his ear. 

“Yukimura,” Finstock handed off his wooden spoon to her. “Take charge for a minute.” 

Kira took his place with a slightly worried crease in her brow as she monitored the pot, taking apples and pouring the chopped bits into the bubbling mixture. Finstock followed Stiles out of the team tent, only to come back a few moments later with an older man, who seemed bewildered but… happy. 

“Hey Chris, Victoria, Allison,” Stiles bounced on the balls of his feet as he slung his around around the man’s waist. “This is my dad. Dad, the team, team, dad.” 

It only took a few more moments before dinner was served, at a long table where the dull roar that seemed to surround them blossomed. Most of the team already knew Victoria and Allison, so it was the Sheriff who was fielding a lot of questions with good nature. 

Victoria leaned on Chris’s arm as the Sheriff told the age-old story of how he figured out Stiles had something _a little extra._ That was his way of saying _magic._ Stiles moaned and groaned his way through the little punchlines and Chris marveled at how… similar they were. He wondered if folks saw the same thing in him and Allison, and that’s when something… struck him. 

“Kira,” Chris nudged his fellow Beater’s foot under the table. “Where are your parents?”

Six games in, and everyone’s folks had come around at some point. 

“Oh,” Kira swallowed her food, her fingers tapping on her glass, “they’re busy. Arithmancy based security wards are a full time practice.” She smiled, though Chris noticed it was stiff. “I think they’ll make it to one of the later games.” 

“Let me know when that happens,” Stiles half-shouted across the table, “they can sit next to my dad.” He held out his fist and Kira had to lean across the table to bump her knuckles against his. “Team newbies!” 

Retirement was… an ongoing conversation with Victoria. She’d already made that step, and Chris knew he had a few more years left, but he could always take off early. Whether or not this was Chris’s last year or not, it wasn’t a hardship, not with Finstock making sure all their bowls were full. 

::::

Everyone loved an underdog story, _especially_ Americans. 

Lydia had known for years that the world was sleeping on the phenomenon that was Robert Finstock, and when she finally got her hands on him she thought _finally._ With subtle updates to the uniform, and how Lydia spun their interviews, their fanbase grew considerably. _Lunatic_ was no longer an insult. 

Once the American Cup had been settled, with the Bandits coming in a _close_ second, the international scrimmages were going to wrap up the season, in preparation for the World Cup in two years. 

_The Bandits finally make it overseas._

Sharp winds whipped her amber hair around her head the moment she stepped out of the hotel. Stiles spun around and got caught up in his own scarf, Derek steadying him when he almost lost balance. Peter watched with a softer smirk than usual, and despite the icy winds Lydia felt warm. 

She turned, to catch a glimpse of Finstock and Kira near the end of the team. Lydia couldn’t hear them, they were too far away, but she saw Kira struggle with the cold as it cut through her jacket. Lydia saw Finstock’s mouth move around, _“Here, I got you,”_ as he took her hands and brought them up to his mouth.

“How does it feel?” Lydia jumped. Peter’s elbow gently nudged her side. “Being back on your old home turf?” 

“America is my home, Mr. Hale.” She hid her hands in her pockets, clenching her fingers to try and force warmth back in her fingers. Finstock joined them, and Kira had appeared between Erica and Boyd, leaning into Erica’s embrace. “It’s always nice to revisit the past.”

The England Quidditch Pitch was a colossal stadium, and Lydia remembered every corridor, every doorman even when she was on the “visitors” side. The fans’s roars and stomping were reduced to a hum. The windows flashed. A storm crackled and raged. 

“You’re sure they’re not going to delay the game?” 

Finstock chewed his bottom lip, staring at the rain pouring down in sheets. 

“Deucalion would only postpone a game if the world cracked in half.” Lydia peered out of the windows. “Don’t worry, there’s a weather charm in place. The rain will come through, but no lightning.” 

Peter helped Stiles adjust his goggles, waving for the team to come around him. 

“Remember, we’re the Bandits. We’re Americans. They,” Peter gestured to the stadium entrance, “expect us to be loud, obnoxious, and arrogant.” Peter grinned. “You know what I say…” 

_**“Why fight expectation?”**_

A chorus of voices answered him. Lydia watched Peter hold up his hand for a running high-five. 

“If you laugh, laugh _loud._ If you smile, make it _big._ And if you cheer, give them the best celebration they’ve ever seen.” 

Stiles and Isaac laughed, Kira pumped her fist and even got Chris to crack a smile. The doors opened and the team flew out into the roaring rain. The wind blew Lydia’s hair back as she walked on Finstock’s left side, Peter on his right. As they walked in shadow, approaching the exit, Lydia heard Finstock take a shuddering inhale. 

They stepped out onto the pitch and the next time Lydia glanced up at Finstock, his manic grin was in place, his fists raised as his team flew above him. 

::::

Thunder cracked above them and rain streaked down in pinpricks across Kira’s skin as she flew beside Chris. Stiles looked nervous, glancing up at the lightning flashes. Kira felt a strange calm settle over her as the referees gathered at the center, holding the Quaffle. 

_Power is nothing to be afraid of,_ her mother would say, holding Kira in her lap as storms raged outside of their home. _It’s always a matter of understanding,_ her mother kissed her cheek as she spoke in whispers, _the more we understand, the less we have to fear._

The Yukimura Legacy intellect. _A Yukimura only fears ignorance_ was written in gold under their family crest. Her mother held her the same way when she’d break down curses in their laboratories, inventing and inverting hexes of every design and hue. _One day,_ her mother promised as Kira watched her break down a curse that was over seven centuries old, _you will have no fear._

Rain was repelled from her goggles as she flew over the pitch, mid-level, above the Chasers but below the Seekers. 

In the air, the cheers from the Blackwood Wolves fans evened out into a droning moan, which was easily covered up by the wind and approaching thunder. Kira hit the Bludger for a second time at one of their Chasers, the ca-crack of her bat crisp in her ears compared to the cheering below. Her skin was cold, the wind was razor-sharp, and she still grinned as she spun into a light dive, dipping just beneath the Chasers to knock another Bludger back up, towards the Chasers but also for Chris to “catch” and send somewhere else. 

She didn’t know much about curses. 

She _did_ know a lot about flying. 

Chris whistled to her, a short little melody that had Kira shooting up. _Get ready for a volley._ The wind whipped the rain hard against her face, and the opposing Beater followed her. She wouldn’t have cared, guarding was a basic Quidditch technique, but he got close, close enough that he kicked her broom handle, the long piece that she wasn’t gripping in an effort to look bored, an expression she’d practiced with Jordan and Chris. She would have ignored it, if it wasn’t for how he dragged the top of his foot along the handle, his tongue rolling out of his mouth as he waggled his eyebrows. 

She jerked her broom back without thinking, disgust wiping the smile off her face. 

Thunder crackled above them, and the rain suddenly got thicker. The slimey grin on the Beater’s face sent a familiar fissure through Kira’s body, and her hands stung. The tips of her fingers ached and numbed, the same way they would when she’d spend time in the Yukimura labs. 

Gripping her bat tight, Kira scrambled quickly, kicking off her own broom and leaping backwards through the thick rain. She only fell for five seconds before green and purple flames erupted on her broomstick, the Beater cursing as she flung her bat at his head. She didn’t wait for the satisfaction of the metal connecting with his skull as she held up her hand, shouting, _“Catch me, Chris!”_

She kept her hand outstretched, her head gazing up at the rain that seemed to fall more densely in a circle around her. She smelled burning ozone. 

_A Yukimura has no fear._

A guttural buzz started in her toes and weighed down her stomach. If she had more time, she would have shouted _someone is deactivating the charm._ If she had more time, she would have turned to see who the hell was doing it. Was it a player? Was it Deucalion Blackwood? 

But she didn’t have time. 

Kira sucked in a breath just she was consumed by a white flash. 

::::

_“Fucking hell,” Lee Jordan gasped, his voice echoing over the hush of the stadium, “Kira Yukimura has been struck by lightning.”_

::::

The next time Kira came to, it was to rain falling on her face. Her upper body burned, her heart _hurt,_ and she vaguely heard a healer muttering under their breath. 

“—letely out of _fucking_ line. What are the fucking safety standards, you pretentious _prick—”_

Kira was used to was muscle aches, a long, agonizing burn over a series of months. Sharp, wicked, and agonizing bursts under her skin were completely new. Wet grass stuck to her back, mud caked on her arms and she couldn’t feel her toes. She turned her head and caught a glimpse of Finstock’s jacket through the rain. He had someone by the collar. 

“—op embarrassing yourself. It’s too bad you’re incapable of healing your own players. Do they have to sign an additional insurance policy? For being under the care of an impotent _Squib?”_

Despite how her nerves tore and shuttered with even the slightest movement, Kira didn’t hesitate in grabbing her wand. The healer shouted something but Kira wasn’t listening, her vision swimming in tears but her aim was precise as she pointed it at Deucalion. _How dare you,_ Kira might have shouted aloud as all the knowledge her mother poured into came to the forefront of her mind. 

She wanted it to _hurt._ She wanted it to _last—_

_“Expelliarmus!”_

Her wand flew from her hand just as Finstock’s knuckles connected with Deucalion’s nose. A frustrated scream tore from Kira’s throat, half at the white-hot pain that gripped her body, and the other half at her lost wand, at being rendered _useless._ She shrieked, turning to see Peter gently tuck his wand back in his holster with wide eyes. Sobs crawled out of her throat, but she still managed to get a grip of mud and throw it at Peter’s face, language abandoning her as all she could produce were animalistic sounds of rage. Betrayal. 

_Let me up, I don’t need a wand to help—_

The next time she opened her eyes she was laid out on a bed in a white room with a high, arched ceiling. 

Specialized healers gazed at her, their sleeves pinned up, their wands out and their eyes concentrated on her bare body. Her instinct was to cover up, but the intensity of the healers’ gaze stopped her. It felt as though thin nails dragged across her skin, a ghostly sensation before a flare of pain appeared, before being soothed over with a cooling balm. 

“Miss Yukimura,” the head healer, adorned in red robes instead of the usual white, leaned into view, “are you with us?” 

She had a stern face, with deep cut wrinkles and long grey braids that trailed down her shoulders. Kira swallowed past another spike of pain followed by relief. 

“Yes.” Kira winced. She took a deep breath and the air was cold, a tad musty. She couldn’t hear the storm. “Am I underground?” 

The lead healer raised a busy eyebrow. 

“You are. Invasive magical procedures always are held in our most protected rooms. My name is Agatha Watts. I am your lead healer today.” 

While Kira breathed through pinpricks of pain, the healers in white remained diligent in their work. 

“Where’s Coach?” Agatha blinked, her face going slack for a string of moments. Kira frowned. “Coach Bobby Finstock, is he here?” 

“He is.” Agatha glanced away from Kira, to somewhere where Kira couldn’t see. “Would you like to see him? We can not cover you up, this is a crucial moment in the nerve recovery process.” 

“I don’t care.” Kira winced at another realignment. “Please, Miss Watts.” 

Agatha snapped her fingers, gesturing with one curt flick of her hand, and familiar, uneven footsteps echoed in the room. They paused, a short stumble that had Agatha’s lips pull back before she stepped away. Within Kira’s next breath, Finstock’s face finally appeared. She did her best to smile. 

“You— I didn’t—” His hands floundered, glancing down to where her arms must have been before he immediately returned his gaze to her face. His palm was warm against her cheek. “You’re going to be fine. Your parents are on their way, Peter is getting them now.” 

Kira turned her face into his hand. 

“Is he mad at me?” Finstock looked at her like he was nuts. “I threw dirt at his face. When he disarmed me.” 

“No he’s not—” Finstock shook his head. “He’s not _mad._ Jesus Christ.” His fingers trembled against her skin. “Your parents will be here soon, Kira.” 

She opened her mouth to ask about the final score, if came off as a decent enough threat for the World Cup in two years, but she smelled familiar scent of dark incense. Finstock’s fingers vanished from her cheek but he remained by her side as her mother and father swept into the room. 

Her mother’s gaze was fiery as she addressed Agatha. 

“Tell me what happened.” 

::::

_Sorry_ was a bullshit word. Finstock learned that early on. 

_We’re sorry, ma’am, our school doesn’t accept Squib pupils._

_Sorry, proper magic requirements are not meant for your application._

_I’m sorry, I just can’t be seen with… a well, you know._

_Sorry, sorry, sorry._

Meaningless. Sorry was really a _fuck you._ Sorry was surrender. Sorry did nothing to relieve true pain. Still, if there was ever a moment when Finstock desperately wanted to use the word and mean it, _truly mean it_ with every fiber of his being, it was when Kira was laid out on the healing table, her parents growing paler and paler as Agatha Watts explained the extensive nerve damage that electricity can bring. Kira’s heart had stopped beating for twenty seconds, and the shock that overtook her body when she regained consciousness had stressed her organs as they hurried to catch up. 

_Permanent scarring_ made her father cover his mouth. 

“Surely there’s something you can do,” her mother hissed. “Her skin… if it’s left like this, it’s hard to look at.” 

Kira’s lips pulled back to reveal her teeth, a haunting mockery of a grin. 

“If someone can’t bear the sight of me, then _they don’t deserve to look at me.”_

The healing took six and a half hours. Finstock and the team stayed for the duration. Angry red lines spread out from the large circle on her chest, above her heart and extending out to the rest of her chest and arms like branches. The edges faded into a shimmering, opal-like hue that shimmered when Kira moved. The marks continued at the exit point on her back, like a painting of the energy that had coursed through her. 

_Beacon Hills Bandits final season game ends in a controversial forfeit!_

The moving photograph was of Finstock with blood on his knuckles and Deucalion clutching his nose as Finstock snarled at the ref. _Fine, we fucking forfeit, just get her to a fucking hospital,_ was silently mouthed on repeat. 

JFK Airport was, as expected, busy. 

He stepped into the terminal with relative ease, his two carry-ons slung over his shoulder as he pulled his windbreaker closer around him. His flight from California was long, and even though it was a red-eye, he didn’t have any hope of sleeping. 

Everytime he closed his eyes he saw Kira, suspended in the air as lightning skewered her body. 

Wizards and witches were easy to spot in the real world. The Yukimura contact was a big guy, broad-shouldered and a head taller than Finstock with his hair pulled up into a long ponytail. He held himself tight, his mouth pulled into a thin grimace as his gaze swept over families like a sentry. 

Finstock whistled, a loud shrill that made the frown deepen when the guy caught sight of him. Finstock took his victories where he could get it. 

“Good morning, Mr. Finstok. I’ll be your driver.” 

He didn’t speak for the two hour long ride. Finstock watched the city fade into suburbs, which faded further into lush greenery. He rolled down the window, closing his eyes at the spring air. The car turned onto a thin, dirt path. Finstock gripped the side of the car with his arm as it rocked, driving through at least three miles of thick trees that blossomed with pink and white flowers. 

When they rolled to a stop and Finstock got out, his jaw dropped. 

“Holy fucking shit.” 

It wasn’t a house. It was a _complex,_ a massive three story structure with small red wooden bridges that crossed over a babbling brook. Weeping cherry trees lined the house, their pink blossoms floating across the wind. Each floor had a wrap-around porch, the wood and railings a deep, stained mahogany. 

Finstock didn’t have to be magic to know that he was entering a fortress. 

The wooden bridge creaked under his weight. He caught glimpses of koi in the water, and the moment he crossed the bridge, more of the house appeared. What had been a peaceful, perfectly tended-to, but _empty_ garden suddenly was _very populated._ Groups of witches and wizards appeared in his vision, moving in unison, slow but precise, brilliant wards spinning at their fingertips. 

He whipped around to stare behind him, at where the car and the driver were, but they were gone. In their place as a moss-covered statue of a fox, at least eight feet tall. 

When he turned back around he flinched. Kira’s mother stood in front of him, not a hair out of place. Finstock was well aware he looked like shit on a good day, and he’d just come out of a sleepless string of days and a six hour flight. Not his finest hour. 

“Whoa,” he couldn’t stop himself from jerking his arms up. “Uh. Hello. Good morning.” 

“Good morning.” She gestured to a mossy patch of grass that was on the side of the stairs that led into the house. “Please take off your shoes.” 

He stumbled to comply, inwardly cringing at how his busted sneakers looked against the timeless backdrop of the Yukimura complex. 

The inside was just as jaw-dropping as the outside. Paintings and tapestries adorned the walls, and flowers. So many _flowers_ of every variety and color filled the hallway in a variety of vases and arrangements. 

“Normally we don’t have so many floral arrangements, but they were sent in from all over the world. Wishing my daughter a speedy recovery.” 

A wave of nausea passed over him and he had to keep his eyes open or else he’d _just keep seeing it,_ over and over. 

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Yukimura.”

She stopped and Finstock stumbled to keep from bowling her over. 

“Did you arrange for it to happen?” His mouth hung open, air escaping him in a pathetic wheeze as she took a step closer. “Did you provide a magic user with a deliberate plan to undo the weather charm and target my daughter?”

“What? _No.”_

“Then there’s nothing to apologize for.” 

He swayed awkwardly on his feet, clutching his bags as though that would afford him any kind of barrier against her. 

“Someone did.” _Probably Deucalion,_ he didn’t say.

“Yes,” Mrs. Yukimura’s eyes were ice when they met his, “and once my husband and I break down exactly how it was cast with irrefutable proof, we will bring him to his knees.” 

Finstock smiled for the first time in a week. 

“I don’t doubt that for a moment.” 

“Good.” She motioned to a corridor to her right. “This will lead you to the courtyard. Kira should be there.” 

It was a long hallway lined with lit incense, the only one he’d seen so far without flowers. He slid open the door and immediately lifted his hand to shield himself from the sunlight. 

The courtyard was… just as beautiful was the rest of the complex. The river cut through a zen garden, and a very out of place turquoise beach chair that had made the tension bleed from Finstock’s shoulders. Sitting in the beach chair, with heart-shaped sunglasses, was Kira. 

He could see the angry red scars peeking out from her shirt, where they ended halfway up her neck, and down to her wrists. She had an iron gripper in one hand and the other turned pages of a book laid across her knees. Something on the page made her smile. Finstock pressed his hands together, like the pressure would ease his fluttering heart. 

“How’s the recovery coming?” 

Kira’s head jerked up and her sunglasses went flying. 

“Bo-Coach Finstock?” She stood, the chair tipping over from her speed as she ran over, her toes sinking into the zen garden’s delicately raked sand. “Hi!” 

She ran up to him, the wood creaking as she swayed on the top step. She hesitated, her smile dimming for a moment before Bobby held out his arms. 

“Come on,” he didn’t have to wait long for her to launch at him, making him stagger back a little as he hugged her. “Do they hurt?” 

Kira nodded. 

“Yup. Pressure really hurts.” Finstock recoiled but she wouldn’t let him move, her grip tightening. “The more I… push it, the more I’ll get used to it.” He followed her back out to the zen garden. “So, what can I do for you?” 

Finstock’s ribs ached, the envelope in his jacket pocket heavy and hot. 

“I wanted to see how you were doing.” He slipped the envelope out of his pocket, ignoring how it stung his fingers. “And I wanted… to provide the option to you, if you choose, to leave the team.” Kira’s eyes welled with tears and Finstock clenched his fist. “It’s only a matter of time before Deucalion is brought to trial. As he _should be._ I was talking to Lydia, and she says that… when something or someone makes him particularly angry or nervous, he strikes at what they most care about.” 

_He finds what you love most,_ Lydia had calmly explained as she pushed a cup of coffee into Finstock’s hands like she wasn’t peeling back his defenses, leaving him raw and exposed, _and he’ll strike it down. That’s why he went after Kira._

“Are you,” Kira hiccuped and turned her face away, “are you worried about retaliation?” 

“Absolutely not.” She whipped back around, her eyes red-rimmed and her tears streaking down her cheeks. Finstock crossed his arms. “That’s why he picked you. He picked you because,” it was Finstock’s turn to avert his eyes, “it’s obvious. I guess. To anyone looking for it, that I…” His stomach twisted, “like you. A lot.” 

Her fingers bumped his arm. 

“It’s okay—”

“It’s not.” He forced himself to meet her gaze, to be strong enough to push the envelope into her hands. “It’s an abuse of power. Even me _telling you_ is— it could be manipulation. It could be seen that way.” 

“But it’s not.” 

Kira’s voice left no room for argument. Finstock sighed. 

“Even though it’s not doesn’t mean it _can’t be._ I told you because that dirtbag targeted you. He could see it. I picked you first,” and Kira opened her mouth but Finstock held up his hand, “Peter, Lydia and I had gone over our strategies for the draft. The plan had been for me to pick Stiles first. He was from a first tier school, and we lost a Seeker. We needed, at the very least, a capable understudy.” 

But he _hadn’t_ picked Stiles first. He still _got_ Stiles, with a few negotiations, but he hadn’t been the first pick. 

The envelope creaked in Kira’s grip. 

“Why did you pick me?” 

“I was at the game against Boston. The first game, not the scheduled rematch.” 

Kira covered her face. 

“Oh God. The game wasn’t _played.”_

Finstock smiled, nostalgic even as his heart threatened to splinter into pieces. 

“I know. The Boston team released eighteen Bludgers onto the field. They said it was an accident, but I think they were just intimidated. Their team evacuated, most of the fans did too, but that’s not what matters.” Finstock grinned at the memory. “You were the one who grabbed a broom and you either hit the Bludgers hard enough to send them a foot into the dirt, or you hit them into their cases.” Kira peeked at him from between her fingers. “You were incredible. It took twenty minutes, and it was brutal, relentless, but you never stopped smiling. You were making hits in ways I’d never seen done before. That’s why I picked you first.” 

Lydia was furious when Finstock had told her what he intended to do once he reached the Yukimura complex. 

_This is a gift! Think of the narrative, a jealous wizard summons lightning to strike down your prized player, but if she came back even stronger—_

Finstock’s coffee cup shattered against the sink. Peter was wide-eyed while Lydia didn’t flinch. He left, with the severance pay with contractual bonus payout, and a letter of recommendation all neatly folded into one envelope. The envelope that Kira still hadn’t opened. 

“So,” she gently tapped the envelope against her palm, “this isn’t about poor performance?” 

“No,” Finstock snorted, “you know how good you are. It’s been an incredible season and everyone, _especially that English fuck,_ knows it.” 

Kira’s smile was pained.

“I can’t believe you threw the game.” 

“Of course I did.” Finstock hugged his arms tighter around himself for a moment. “Thinking I’d do anything different is insulting.” 

She stared at him for a long moment, more than a couple heartbeats thudded in Finstock’s chest. _I don’t care if it’s not the smart thing to do,_ he snarled at Lydia as he slammed out of his house. It was the right thing to do. 

::::

When people looked at Bobby the _Lunatic_ Finstock, they saw a loud blowhard who’d lose his voice at every game. He was a caricature, a hyper-condensed sampling of humanity’s vices all rolled up into one man. 

Kira Yukimura had to be drafted into the Bandits for her to see more. 

He was loud, because Quidditch got him excited, energized. He was angry at the bureaucracy behind the league, at the unfair assumptions made about American teams. He was _astonishingly_ quiet most of the time. He studied his players, he knew their movements like they were his own. 

He didn’t stop at Quidditch. He knew their deepest interests, his bookshelves overflowing with a confusing mixture of subjects until Chris had whispered to Kira, _“he likes to be able to talk about the things we’re all into.”_

_How does no one else see it?_ Kira wondered countless times, during practice, during dinner, during games, and sometimes in the middle of the night when they all slept in a tent, starlight peeking through the enchanted cloth above them. 

_“Don’t you think he should have someone? Or… or if he doesn’t want anyone, he should at least have a dog.”_ Kira confessed to Stiles in the back of their Quidditch bus as they drove all over the country. _“I just hope he’s happy. That’s all I want for anyone I love. I want them to be happy, and preferably, surrounded by dogs.”_

Their bus went over a pothole and Stiles had smiled, his pink. 

_“You’ve got it bad, Kira.”_

Unrequited love had always been put on a pedestal of pain, people treating it like a horrible diagnosis. Knowing Finstock wasn’t painful. If anything, it was the opposite. Love just meant that Kira was happy to know him at all, that he had become more than just a face people could snicker at when it appeared on television. 

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” Finstock blinked, his jaw working like he was searching for a retort. “Just because you have power doesn’t automatically mean you’ll abuse it.” Her toes sank into the sand as she took a step closer. “I trust you.” 

When she took his hands into hers she felt them tremble. 

“You shouldn’t.” His throat jumped and splotches of pink and red crawled up his neck. “Just because I haven’t doesn’t mean I won’t. Most people are awful, Kira. They get jealous. They… they do stupid shit all the time.” 

She ran her thumbs over his knuckles. 

“I’d never compare you to most people.” She laughed at his _fair enough_ smirk. She pulled herself forward, her toes lifting out of the sand. His stubble tickled her palms. “May I? Please?” 

“Sure,” his breath stuttered across her lips, “whatever you want.” 

His lips were gentler than they looked. 

::::

Gold velvet draped over Kira’s shoulders as she pushed her way into the local bar. The bartender nodded in recognition. The team was in their usual corner, two tables and a section of the bar unspokenly reserved for them. Erica and Boyd had sandwiched Isaac between them, Derek, Scott, and Jackson on the other side with a mountain of fries between them. 

Jordan, Peter, Lydia, and Danny sat at the other table, eating actual meals and catching up after the short break that came after the season. Chris and Finstock sat at the bar, their beers untouched as they stared at the television screen. Chris glanced up and caught Kira’s eye. He stood up, giving her a hug before he said, “here, take my seat,” as he shifted over one stool. 

“Hey there,” Bobby smiled, slow and sweet. “Nice jacket.” 

It was his Christmas gift to her. Harsh winds blew wet snow outside, yet that smile chased away the stinging cold in an instant. His fingers were warm in hers when he leaned in to kiss her. 

“Are you nervous?” 

Finstock answered, “Nah,” just as Chris said, “He absolutely is.” Finstock glared at Chris, who just laughed and sat next to Jordan. Finstock grumbled but his grip on Kira’s hand never tightened, remaining a tender constant. She nudged his shoulder and Finstock shrugged, the motion to drastic to be genuine. 

“I’m not worried. I’m not, because we’re not going to be picked. Every World Cup, America has always been represented by the Finches, with pickings from the other teams.” He rolled his lower lip between his teeth. “I’m not worried because there’s nothing to even worry about.” 

Whenever the World Cup rolled around, a dominant team was chosen to represent each country, with the option to draft up to ten additional players from the other teams. 

“I don’t know,” Kira squeezed Finstock’s fingers. “I think we have a shot.” 

“Everyone shut up!” Erica leapt up on the table. “It’s starting!” 

Sure enough, the stream started and a reverent hush fell over the bar. The English representative of the Board cleared his throat. Other countries went first, and the team had abandoned their tables until they were crowded at the bar, holding their breath until the representative sighed. 

“And for the American team,” he drew in a belabored breath, “the Board has selected the Beacon Hills Bandits.” 

Finstock was able to whimper an “Oh my God,” before the entire bar exploded in celebration.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my friend Ruby, who puts up with my constant ramblings about different ideas, and this is one of the MANY ramblings. HP fusions/AUs have always intimidated me, because the more you delve into another universe like that, the more you start poking holes in the logic of the world building. 
> 
> I hope any errors weren’t too distracting. I just wanted to have fun with training montages and Quidditch matches, so I wasn’t overly concerned with accuracy in terms of whatever happened after the canon of the Harry Potter series. Sorry! I’m always envious of folks who can write fusions like that, but I personally can’t. Also I hope you liked the little cameos from Lee Jordan <3
> 
>  
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and the other things I do in relation to these fics (journals, playlists, head canons). [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!


End file.
